


Coitus Interruptus

by justcourbeau



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Friends to Lovers, Light BDSM, Neighbors, Post-Hogwarts, Shameless Smut, Smut, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-08-21 21:56:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16584941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justcourbeau/pseuds/justcourbeau
Summary: In which Hermione is presented with an opportunity to try something outside her comfort zone.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, hi.
> 
> So this was posted on fanfiction as my birthday extravaganza fic from 2017, and I didn't cross-post here at that time. So here we are.

_Hermione,_

_Come down when you get home—I've got fish and chips, and I need your help picking a film._

_-G_

.

.

.

After showering and pulling on some pajamas, Hermione made her way out to her front landing and down the flight of old wooden stairs. Not bothering to stop and knock, she let herself into the apartment directly below her own.

"I'm here!" she called out.

"Oh good—will you pick from the two on the table?" George’s voice drifted from the depths of the house.

"Sure!" Hermione called in response, rounding the coffee table and just about falling onto the couch. In front of her were two movies. As she read the backs of them and compared each of their merits, a group of takeaway containers floated idly out of the doorway leading to the kitchen.

"How was work?" she asked George when he came around the corner a moment later.

"Remind me to give Verity another raise," he stated by way of an answer.

"That fabulous, huh?"

"Yeah." He sighed. "Angie still needs Fred at home; it's only been a week since she had the boys. Did you decide on a film?"

"This one." She handed him one of the cases, and he turned to put it in the player.

Hermione had managed to rig up an old television to work, despite the proximity to the magical hub of Diagon Alley. He crouched down a few feet away, the muscled line of his neck tight with stress. Once he was done, George sank onto the couch beside Hermione, the cushions shifting and compressing.

The fish was fresh, the coating crispy and hot. Hermione relished in the warmth the food spread back into her limbs as she chewed. The television flickered as the lights dimmed, George flaunting one of the only feats of wandless magic he could do consistently, to his chagrin.

Moving to pull a foot up under herself, Hermione's hand sunk between the cushions, and her index finger got pinched by something unexpectedly hard. Pulling the object out in the dark, she wondered why George had a paint stir stick on his couch. She moved it to the table and resumed her food, George at her side.

"Could you pass me a bit of lemon?" he whispered a few minutes in.

"You had some," she whispered back.

"Well, I want more," he whispered again, the pair leaning in to hear one another, though there was no one else in the room to disturb from the movie.

"That's a bit greedy," she continued, still hushed.

"Don't _make_ me make you give me a lemon wedge, Hermione," he laughed quietly. "You only ever use one, and you know it. That other one's going to go to waste."

Conceding and dropping her remaining lemon wedge onto the edge of his plate, Hermione shushed him and grinned when she saw his lips quirk in her peripheral vision.

.

.

.

"Are you painting?" Hermione asked when the movie ended, and George upped the lights again somewhat.

"Am I what?" George paused to stretch after standing.

"Painting." She nodded to the paint stick.

Which, actually, with the light on, wasn't a paint stick at all.

"I don't think paddles are traditionally used with paint. I could be wrong though, I suppose," he replied, shrugging and watching Hermione closely.

A paddle? For what?

He must have seen the puzzled look on her face because he snorted quietly.

"Don't ask, Hermione. You won't want to know."

Frowning, Hermione followed after him into the kitchen, setting their dishes down on the counter by the sink.

"Thanks for assisting me in that most-important mission of food decimation," he offered by way of subject change, setting the dishes to wash themselves in a slowly filling sink.

"It was my honour, truly," she responded. George was intentionally herding her around and back out to the front door. She beat a hasty path from the stunned awkwardness between them at their odd exchange, slipping quickly out the door with a shared 'goodnight'.

George? A paddle?

Like one that was used for... punishment?

Well, it certainly wasn't the right shape for table tennis, she scoffed to herself.

Oh. _Oh_.

 _"Don't_ make _me make you…"_

Suddenly, his words from earlier took on a whole new meaning, and Hermione felt the realization prickle over her nerves.

Is that what he did with those witches he sometimes brought home? Every single one she had ever run into on the steps had appeared happy, so it was clearly consenting.

She shivered and gooseflesh puckered her skin painfully.

Was he one of those men who liked to bend their girls over sofa armrests? One who liked seeing the pink bloom of a spank?

She knew those men existed.

Ron had been gentle with her. Too gentle, as if he thought if he jostled her too hard she would snap at him like she'd used to over unfinished homework and eating habits.

Neville had, unfortunately, been a mutual rebound, and they had parted ways and returned to the land of friends over a year ago. Her time with Neville had been exciting in that they had told no one, which ended up being a good thing when they realized it wasn't a long term situation for either of them.

She dated, but no one had managed to cause that spark to be set alight in her, the one she read about in books, and novels, and stories. Ones of side-glances, and secret meetings, and debaucherous rendezvous.

She'd longed for the day that she would experience a thrill of excitement of that calibre, but she certainly hadn't anticipated it being at the hands of George Weasley.


	2. Chapter 2

"Doesn't it hurt?" she blurted, breaking the silence awkwardly.

"Hmm?" George looked up from his papers with a frustratingly unconcerned look on his face at her suddenly barging into his office.

All day while she had been at work, Hermione had been rolling over the events of the night before.

George Weasley had a penchant for... well, she didn't know the word for it, exactly. But she had also had some thoughts and questions that needed answering now, because she always needed to know the inner workings of everything. The main question being—

"Doesn't it hurt?" she repeated.

George didn't answer right away, choosing instead to lay his quill down and regard her with a hesitant look.

Even sitting, it was clear he was a tall man. His desk sat a good bit higher than desks usually did, presumably to accommodate his long legs. And on top of that, the solid wood of it was dark and stately, commanding and dominating the room.

George rose, his neutral facade cracking as he raised a hand to rub the back of his neck slowly, pondering. For a moment, she thought she saw his cheeks darken a shade in embarrassment, but she dismissed the thought.

"No, not really. It stings. But I think for some people, it's a... good kind of sting," he offered, waiting a beat before meeting her eyes again. "It _can_ hurt. But I don't hit harder than I'm allowed to."

A numbing frisson started to spread down her legs.

"What's it for, _precisely?"_ she asked then, referring to the paddle and hoping he was following.

Between every exchange, there seemed to be a protracted moment of silence, as if each party was weighing their potential responses to the other very carefully before playing the hand they chose.

"What do you think it's for?" George parried.

"I mean, what do you _do_ with it?" Hermione huffed, displeased with his deflection.

"What do you think I do with it?" George pressed with a self-satisfied smirk.

"I don't know. That's why I'm asking," she said slowly. She saw the corner of his mouth twitch.

They regarded one another from opposite sides of the large desk, the air between them heavy with potential—both good and bad. This could go horribly wrong or horribly right.

"Would you like me to show you?" He paused to observe her reaction. "You like learning, and isn't a hands-on method usually the most instructional?"

Her lungs froze. She really didn't think he would let it go this far, to the actual suggestion of sex—or something she rather thought was related. They had been close friends for a few years, and not once in her memory had there ever been a time where one or the other had taken a fancy, and things had never been this _searing_ . George's eyes were dark and intent on her, and it made her _want._

Hermione didn't trust her voice not to crack or rasp, so she settled for a nod.

"Go get it. It's right where you left it." George's voice was exactly the same as she recalled it being at every other point in her life, and yet there was a quality distinctly different she couldn't place her finger on. It wasn't an invitation. It was an order, and Hermione didn't know if she was more ticked that he was telling her what to do, or that she seemed to be okay with it for the time being.

Hermione skirted through the shop and back upstairs, stopping at the second floor as opposed to continuing on up to the third. Pushing the front door open, she was greeted immediately with the object of her recent contemplation.

Made of wood stained a dark, dimensional brown, the paddle was light and slender, not really what she might have imagined just from the word. "Paddle" sounded heavy, but this was far from it. She could see why she had mistaken it for a muggle paint stick; it shared a striking resemblance to one in its weight and dimensions.

Was she honestly going to let him _show_ her how he used it? Did she trust him enough to... do whatever it was he was going to do?

And she hadn't—oh god she hadn't shaved in over a month. That needed to be remedied, and fast. If he touched her leg, she might—

The thought of whatever situation with George that might or might not be in her near future made her shiver.

Grabbing the wooden implement, she dashed upstairs to her own flat, tugging her work clothes off in a hurry. Hastily recalling the wand movements Ginny had shown her ages ago, Hermione magicked the hair from her legs and hesitantly contemplated other areas.

.

.

.

"I thought you'd changed your mind," George said as she came back into the office, the instrument she'd fetched tucked up her sleeve.

After shaving magically and running around in a bit of a panic, changing into non-work clothes, and panicking some more, Hermione had descended into the shop again and made her way back to George with her blood rushing in her ears.

What if this whole thing flopped and they ruined their friendship? Would she have to move? She liked it here. What if he got one look at her without various pieces of clothing on and didn't like what he saw?

"No, I..." she trailed off, not sure what to do with the thing in her hand.

"Nevermind," he offered, face largely unreadable. George stood from his seat and came around to face Hermione. She inhaled as he stepped up to her, being so close under his gaze. She was immediately aware of the weave of his shirt, the smell of his skin, and the worn scuff of his sneakers as he moved.

George held out his hand, and Hermione hesitated a split second before raising her own and depositing the paddle. He caught her wrist in his free hand as she pulled away, and her gaze flew up to his.

"Do you really want this? Because it's okay if you tell me to stop."

Looking into his eyes, she searched for any indication of hesitance, or pleasure, or anything else that might give her an indication of his feelings on the matter at hand. Hermione found nothing there, and her inner logical protestations faded to silence.

When exactly would she ever get another chance to experience something so... so out of her comfort zone of reassured knowledge?

Her heart raced under the cage of her ribs, her blood thrumming and humming along in her veins, colour flushing her cheeks warmly. It felt as if every nerve ending was alert. This was George—her ex's older brother, a long time acquaintance and tentative friend, and her _landlord_ no less—but here he was making her knees weak with merely a suggestion.

Hermione was passionate about a great many things, most of which could easily raise her blood pressure during a heated discussion. She was used to dealing with that sort of intellectual provocation that had her mind shaking in anticipation but never had a man managed to provoke that response from the rest of her _body._

And God Save the Queen—

It was _glorious._

Was she really willing to let the opportunity to see something like this through to the end go?

And so she nodded. Yes, she did want this.

_It could go horribly wrong._

George released his hold on her wrist and held his own hand out to her patiently. Hermione accepted it.

"Turn around," he requested after leading her around to his side of the desk.

_Horribly right._

Her heart was beating out of her chest—whatever was about to happen would likely not easily be forgotten—and what if things went downhill and someone got hurt? She would feel terrible if... no.

"Bend over."

Hermione had heard George's voice say many things over their years of acquaintance-turned-friendship, but nothing quite prepared her for the wanton strumming of her libido and the delirious lightheadedness she experienced when he uttered those words.

And what was more, she _obeyed._


	3. Chapter 3

The surface of the desk was handsome and polished, though its use showed when Hermione's gaze was close enough to see the light reflect over dents and scratches on the foreign worktop. Bits of her hair tickled over her cheek as George remained silent, shifting around behind her. She wondered what he was doing, but didn't move from her position hunched over his desk, using her forearms to prop herself up.

George's chair moved back, and Hermione heard him sit behind her, not far from her stance. Her eyes skirted over the selection of quills and scraps of parchment and, curiously, blueprints that were scattered about her line of vision.

Should she say something?

She thought, for a moment, that she felt something skim down the outside of her right thigh, featherlight, but before she could be sure, it was gone. Instead, Hermione jumped as George's hand wrapped around her ankles, one at a time, and carefully moved them farther apart.

"That's better," he commented when he sat up in his seat again, his voice low. Hermione saw his shoes appear between her spread ones, and realized precisely how close he must be sitting. Her heart was thumping, the adrenaline of not knowing precisely what he was about to do spurring her body's erratic response.

"What are you going to do?" she risked asking, already fairly certain she wouldn't receive a response from him that actually answered her question.

"What I stated I would do: show you how I use this," he said, holding the paddle in her line of vision for a moment before retracting again. "I guarantee I won't hurt you, but if it gets overwhelming, just tell me. Simple as that."

There was a gap in conversation.

"Alright?" he prompted her.

"Alright," she responded.

"Lay your shoulders flat to the desk." He moved on quickly.

Hermione dropped her chest down gently, laying the front of her body on the surface of the desk. Cool seeped through the front of her clothes, and the muscles of her belly tightened as he brought the hem of her pullover up, pushing the fabric to sit at her lower back. She desperately wanted to crane her neck back to see just where his eyes were tracing, for she felt extremely vulnerable, and he had yet to make any comment. A fluttering pressure she imagined were his fingertips dusted over her behind, still shielded from his peering gaze by clothing.

She thought for sure he would have—

_Thwap!_

There was a sharp sound, and a slight impact on her right buttock causing her to jump in surprise.

"Did that hurt?" George asked her.

"No," she answered promptly. It hadn't. She had felt it of course, but it hadn't hurt. Not even close.

_Thwap!_

"Did _that_ hurt?"

He had landed in the same spot, and it smarted for a fraction of a second but again—

"No."

Silence.

"Do you want me to do it again?"

"Yes," she heard herself say, feeling quite unattached to her body.

Now that her body was fairly certain he wasn't about to flog her to within an inch of her life, she relaxed. The blood was slowing to a quick pace from a racing one, and Hermione felt warm.

At her request, George smattered a number of quick snaps over her covered backside, varying the placement but remaining fairly even with his level of force. After half a dozen, and then a dozen, he stopped, and Hermione let out the breath she had been holding.

"It doesn't sting that much," she said, somewhat more breathlessly than she had ever heard her voice.

"That's because it's not on bare skin," he replied succinctly. " _And_ I'm not hitting very hard."

George had barely touched her cotton-clad thighs or arse, just a brush here and there. The only thing that had been touching her consistently was the hard paddle, and she felt a strong ache beginning to grow at her apex. She was bent over, legs spread enough to make her feel exposed, and only a thin layer or two of fabric between her skin, and George's eyes and fingers. If he would just lay his hand against her, just for a second, it might help. On the other hand, maybe she would be mortified. What if he just reached up and slid a blunt finger over the seam there?

The ache throbbed to a minute point, very near to begging, and Hermione did her best to ignore it. While she pondered the sudden calming in her mind, George continued at a slower pace, almost as if he were choosing his exact target carefully.

"Harder?" he questioned.

"Yes, please," she breathed.

If he put more force behind the impact, would it make everything else go even more quiet? Or would it just hurt? She was going to find out.

_Thwap!_

This one was more forceful; it had more of a snap to it, and her toes clenched in response.

"Harder?" he asked again, with what sounded like hesitant hope in his voice.

"Yes, please," she repeated herself.

_Thwap!_

" _Hard—”_

"Yes, please."

Her eagerness made him chuckle lowly and shift closer in his chair, if that was possible. Again, she jumped when she felt his hand on her ankle, but this time, instead of directing her foot away from the other, his touch trailed up the inside of her calf. Hermione nearly choked on her breath as he skimmed deliberately over the inside of her knee and continued upward exceptionally slowly. Resisting the urge to shift under his hand, Hermione steeled her nerves.

George's palm remained flat to her as it glided up her inner thigh, pausing here and there to give a slight squeeze as if to make sure she was still there and not running for the hills. _As if_ she could go anywhere else right now. He crept closer and closer to the junction of her thighs and Hermione inhaled sharply when he came within mere millimetres of touching her centre. George's hand stopped, still pressed and curved around the top of her thigh, the web between index finger and thumb sitting snug at the place where her leg met the rest of her body. His thumb curved back toward him, cradling the swell of her right cheek, and his index finger curved up the front of the junction, pointing toward her hip. The sensitive flesh he had in his grasp would have quivered in anticipation if she felt like she could have controlled her muscles at all, but seeing as that particular skill seemed to be lacking just now, she settled for letting her breath go shakily.

When his hold tightened minutely, she knew what was coming.

Except it didn't. She didn't feel the impact of the paddle at all. George removed his hand, and she was about to turn around, disappointed, when he started the very same process on the left leg. Beginning at her ankle, he gently grasped the flesh of her inner leg from bottom to top yet again, stopping at the same place.

"One more?" he asked, his voice very near.

"Just one?"

That must have been the right answer, for his hand moved and—

He was touching her over her clothing, light and teasing. His finger stroked up the seam of her leggings, and her knees almost buckled. George's other hand grasped her hip firmly and held her against the desk, stable, before he pressed his fingers harder between her legs.

It was in this moment, as her eyes rolled back in pleasure, that she realized he must be able to feel the dampness of her through a few layers of thin cotton, and she flushed hotly. Fire burned up the side of her neck and bloomed in her cheeks, her forehead, her chest.

And yet somehow she couldn't bring herself to be self-conscious about it. As long as he kept rubbing her gently, her brain was quite occupied.

"Once more each side," he started. "But on _bare_ skin, unless you’ve any objections."


	4. Chapter 4

"No objections," Hermione let out, voice hardly loud enough for even herself to hear.

"Oh, good," George commented, "because I would hate to stop now."

And for the first time, she could hear the satisfaction in his voice. She wondered belatedly what sort of enjoyment he got out of this. She could hardly judge him, as she was the one on the receiving end, and very much enjoying his efforts. She wondered all the same, however.

George laid the paddle down on the desk beside her, and smoothed his palms up over her backside, curling his fingertips over the elastic at her waist and peeling the fabric back slowly. At once, Hermione knew there must be pink patches on her skin, for the air seemed too cool against her and her core far too hot.

With bated breath, Hermione waited, paying particular attention to his touches, his moves, and his skin on hers. She stood stock still, waiting for a reaction or a comment or—

She felt his fingers on her flesh, handling her and spreading her open for a moment. George inhaled slowly and Hermione wanted to cheer in triumph at this little sign. He pulled her pants lower and lower, and then left the fabric bunched at her knees. She could feel the heat of her dripping, slippery and hot, and hoped upon hope that he would touch her again, directly where she craved most.

Though this was her hope, she was was hardly surprised when instead of going straight for the surefire route, George instead went back to skimming his fingers along her inner thighs, under the rounded bottom of her arse, and fluttering frustratingly close to what was hopefully the end goal at some point.

Hermione's fingers clenched in anticipation, and she cracked.

"Will you _please_ get on with it?" she huffed, sure that this was not entirely the best route to take but not having any control to stop herself just then.

"Do you remember," George said, "when you tried to quash our pranking at school, and how every time you preached at us, we would just go work harder at disobeying you? I might remind you how successful we were."

Hermione opened her mouth, but he continued.

"The more you _ask_ , the longer I'll make you wait," he finished, and if she hadn't been bent over on his desk, she might have growled at him. His smug self-satisfaction at her resulting silence was palpable.

Again, she was struck with the notion that while she wasn't entirely sure how she felt about his… instructions, warnings, or orders, she was still there, front plastered to his desk and legs spread for him.

"Good. Once more, then," he chirruped, and she nearly laughed. She might have if she hadn't been so frustrated and close to begging.

Would he like that?

It didn't matter; she wouldn't _actually_ beg.

His hands left her skin completely, and he picked up the paddle once more. A few beats later, Hermione felt the the sharp snap come down once—she tried not to make a noise—and then twice. A split second later, George's fingers were against her, and she sagged, groaning, before they disappeared as fast as they had come.

"Up," he ordered, and she bit her lips together to keep from whining at the loss. His hands were on her arms, and he was bodily turning her to face him. Again, heat coursed through every capillary, vein, and artery. She was about to look him in the face when he had just had his fingers—

She swallowed thickly. George was concentrating more intently on her than she had ever recalled, eyes dark, cheeks flushed, hair rumpled. He gave her a slow, heated once over before bending again and lifting each foot in turn to remove her flats and leggings completely. They fell to the floor with a gentle thud and rustle, respectively.

Hermione felt exceptionally naked; more naked than she had ever felt in her life and she still had a sweater on, the hem of which had fallen back down, tickling the tops of her thighs. George noticed too, and very efficiently pulled it up over her head and discarded it much the same as the other garments.

George was so close, his front nearly touching hers but not quite. He gazed down at her, watching, boring into her eyes. He didn't move his gaze in the slightest as he slid his hand over her ribs, careful to only just barely skim the underside of her breast. Hermione was sensing a pattern in his behaviour.

Grasping her hips yet again, he bumped her back into the edge of the desk and lifted her slight frame with hardly a problem, setting her behind in the centre of the worktop.

"Lay back," he requested, lips twitching at her blown pupils.

Hermione started to, before she shot back up.

"What about the shop?!"

Her heart came to a crashing standstill when she realized anyone could walk in on them, a stranger, an adult, a _kid_.

"Don't worry, Hermione," George chuckled yet again. "I locked the door."

"Oh," she remarked, rather lamely. "Okay."

" _Back_ ," he reminded her with a pointed look, and she rolled her spine down against the hardwood. George pulled her knees up, and grasped her wrists one at a time, directing her palms to hold her shins. "Keep these there."

And suddenly, Hermione was resisting the urge to giggle hysterically. She felt her body shaking minutely, not in laughter, but cold nervousness. When his fingertips trailed yet again over her inner thighs, she startled.

George's hands were somewhere between smooth and rough, and he pressed down, prompting her to open her thighs wider.

"There," he said and sat back down, dragging the paddle off the desk as he did so.

Hermione's breathing was laboured, and she tried to concentrate on it, to slow it, but her brain was not in the mood to cooperate.

There was a gentle tap on her leg, and another. And then another, slightly harder. George was moving the paddle around her inner thighs, tap tap tapping, pausing, a gentle rhythm interspersed with sharper snaps.

Hermione felt the blooming on her skin, slow and warm and just barely skimming the surface. The whole ordeal was both mortifying—he had a completely unobstructed view of her, every last fold of her—and intensely exciting, for she had never had a man take so much time with her before.

Well, she didn't know exactly how this was going to end and, somehow, in her haze of desire for more knowledge, more experience, she had forgot to plan for how things might turn out. For once, she'd run into the situation with no exit strategy, and she couldn't even begin to care at the moment.

One thing was for certain, though...

She hadn't expected it to end with someone trying to bang down George's office door.


	5. Chapter 5

Absolute mortification.

Complete, utter, frozen. But thankfully George was quick; before the count of five, he had her standing with her clothes slithering back onto her body. She lifted her feet one at a time for her leggings and, with a look of bewilderment, they tugged up. Her sweater was lopsided and Hermione adjusted it, realizing that it was inside out.

Whoever was knocking on the door, hopefully they wouldn't notice.

George unlocked it a moment later, and Lee fell in.

"Finally, you bloody—oh, hi Hermione," the dark-skinned boy remarked in her direction. His face remained relatively neutral but a twitch of his eyebrows betrayed his surprise. There was no question he would have noticed her red face, and how the blush seemed to be covering every inch of exposed neck and chest. Thankfully, he said nothing about it and went back to what Hermione supposed was the reason he had been trying to beat the door down. "We've got that meeting with the Zonko's people in barely half an hour so you better…"

"Oh right, fuck," George started, looking hastily around for his cloak. "I'll be ready in a minute, hold on."

"You should do something about your hair," Lee commented in a tone that was supposed to convey an level of offhandedness. However, the fellow Gryffindor shot Hermione a dastardly wink before adding, "Hermione's gone and messed it up, hasn't she?"

"She didn't touch my hair, what are you talking ab—” George had been smoothing his ginger hair down deftly before his gaze snapped up and he gasped dramatically, finger pointing at his best friend.

"Are you saying she touched something else, Georgey?" Lee quirked.

" _Get out_ , you lazy bugger, and you can take your nosing with you," he responded with a grin. Lee acquiesced, giving Hermione a little bow before dashing back out to the shop.

"Oh no," she breathed watching Lee trot off with somewhat-forbidden knowledge of what might have been going on in the office a moment before he'd interrupted.

"Don't worry, he's just being a shite," George supplied. "But, uhm…"

"You have to go, yes," Hermione felt herself rambling. "Me too! Must dash. Lots to do, you know!"

Her voice took on a higher-than-usual pitch as she skirted quickly around the desk, pausing to snatch her shoes off the floor. With hardly a backward glance, she sped out of the room and dodged customers. The three flights of steps didn't slow her down, and she slammed her front door shut the moment she was through to her apartment.

.

.

.

It had been a very long time since Hermione and George hadn't been in the habit of seeing each other at least a few days a week. However, the one following their interruption, neither made the trek to the other's front door, or sent an owl, or even banged a wall to disturb the other. It had been silent on every floor above the shop, and Hermione was fretting about eventually running into George and, when that happened, what she would say.

At the time, back on _that_ day, she hadn't even had time to think. It was a flurry of emotions and—well, she wasn't sure of the next step, at any rate. If George hadn't been to see her—which he hadn't—maybe that meant he wasn't interested in _finishing the job_. Hermione dropped her head into her hands, and her body sagged.

She'd taken every offer of overtime, every double shift, every cover for someone else's break in order to keep her mind from stewing. Being a Healer was hard work, and Hermione had abused it to keep her busy far more than it usually did. Her muscles ached, and her brain was fuzzy, and she needed sleep more than most other things.

 _All_ other things, in fact. All other things except…

She wouldn't be able to sleep well until she found some relief from the problem George had created the week before. She hadn't taken care of it herself because, well, somehow _this_ one seemed like it wouldn't be complete without George's help. She also had a sneaking suspicion he would be mad if he wasn't there to witness it himself.

Well, there was only one thing to do, then. Hermione rose and steeled her nerves, fighting with her curls for a second before huffing and making for the front door. She could hardly believe she was doing this. For a second time.

Hermione knocked on George's door and waited, not certain if she hoped he were home or away more. Quite soon after, she heard the distant sound of steps coming closer.

George pulled the door open, his face again unreadable.

"Hi," she started.

"Hey," George said. He looked like he was still debating what to say, so she took a leap.

"I was wondering if maybe we could finish what we started." Hermione watched his face closely.

"Yes. Absolutely yes." He nodded, a wide grin breaking over his features. "But, ah, I did things a bit backwards with you and that was really stupid of me. So maybe we can save that for another day, and go on a proper date instead?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> Don't forget to comment, my loves.


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